Lucy’s eyes glistened. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Helen cleared her throat. “I knew your mother, Beth, also. We went to high school together.”
“Everyone who knew my mother has some kind of story,” Lucy responded.
A faint smile tugged at Helen’s lips. “I do have a few, yes. She was a lively girl. I understand she passed away.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Helen said. “I lost my mother when I was about your age.”
Megan could hear the sadness and pain in Helen’s voice. But how could she offer comfort to a woman who held her responsible for her son’s death?
If Lucy sensed the tension, she skated around it. “Can I offer you a water, Mrs. Jessup?”
“No, I don’t want to impose. And please call me Helen.”
Helen looked up toward the house as if struggling to find some reason to stay. Though she could simply ask, she was a prideful woman, and despite her pain, she would not intrude.
Whatever anger Megan had hung on to since last fall abandoned her, leaving instead an empty, exposed sensation. “Would you like to see the house?” she asked.
Helen’s eyes softened, and she released a breath she was holding. “Yes, Megan, I would. Thank you.”
Mr. Tucker and his two men each carried out boxes filled with books. “If you ladies go inside, let us know if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Megan said.
As the three women climbed the front steps, Helen looked around, clearly curious about the project. “I guess you remember that Samuel was my late husband’s granduncle. Samuel didn’t move to this property until the mid-1990s. He was quite the man of the world.”
“He waited fairly late in life to marry my grandmother,” Lucy said. “My mom was born a year later.”
“My father-in-law said once that Samuel, as a young man, was in love with another woman and pined for her most of his life. Your grandmother apparently reminded him of his lost love. I understand he asked her to marry him on their second date.”
“Really?” Lucy said. “Do you know who the lost love was?”
“No. I never pressed for details.”
“Do you know where he lived when he was married?” Lucy asked.
“The house on Cove Lane,” Helen said.
“The sheriff just bought a house on Cove Lane,” Megan said.
Helen stepped closer. “I’m the one who told Rick about it. I’d heard it was for sale and knew he would be the kind of man to bring it back to life.”
“That was Samuel’s house?” Lucy asked.
“Samuel bought the house for his wife and your mother. Though from what I remember, he wasn’t around much.”
“You and Rick talk often?” Megan asked.
“Yes,” Helen said. “He’s a good man. He’s one of the few people who still talks about Scott. And I miss that. I don’t want him forgotten. And I want the baby to know about her father.”
“I haven’t forgotten Scott,” Megan said softly.
Helen was quiet, as if the words were trapped in her chest. She shifted her gaze to a picture on the wall of Samuel in southeast Asia. “I’m not angry with you, Megan. I want there to be peace. I want to know my grandchild.”
Tears welled in Megan’s eyes, and as much as she tried to will them away, they spilled down her cheeks. “I want that too, Helen.”
The conversation petered out, and an awkward silence settled between them. It was Lucy, as always, who steered them toward calm waters. “Helen, you really do have to help us. I want to know more about my grandfather. You’re the one person I know who knew him the longest.”
“Are you sure?” Helen asked.
“Of course we’re sure,” Lucy said.
“I can also introduce you to my grandmother-in-law,” Helen offered. “She’s ninety-eight. Samuel would have been a young man when she married Aaron, and they must have crossed paths many times. She might know who Samuel was in love with all those years ago.”
“That would be awesome,” Lucy said.
“Megan, is it all right with you?” Helen asked.
Megan could almost feel Scott standing beside her, nudging her to speak. Come on, Meg. Be the bigger person.
He had said the same words to her when she had pushed through the front door of his apartment. She had just found out she was pregnant and wanted to share the news with him. Instead, she had found one of her bridesmaids wearing only his shirt.
Scott had tried to talk to her, but she’d run from the building. That had been the last time she had seen him. He had called and texted her a dozen times with no answer.
She had contacted her mother, announced she was canceling the wedding and needed a vacation. Her mother had been stunned, angry, and had reminded her of the costs involved. Megan had vowed to pay it all back. Better to be a runaway bride than the gullible woman.
To her parents’ credit, they had recovered from the shock and rolled with the sudden change. While Megan had gone into hiding in the Blue Ridge Mountains, her mother had canceled everything and eaten the cost of the rental space and half the catering fee.
Two weeks later, Scott was dead.
“Helen, of course you’re welcome,” Megan said. “We could use the help going through this house.” Even as she made the statement, she tried to picture interacting with Helen on a daily basis. They had always been polite to each other, but they had never landed on a connection beyond Scott.
Helen’s face softened. “I do like to organize.”
Megan turned to Lucy, who quickly picked up the ball. “It’ll take us a week to dig through the office alone.”
Mr. Tucker and his men pushed through the front door and onto the porch with a dolly full of boxes. With each new box removed, the house felt a shade lighter.
Helen faced them, her eyes brightening with hope. Death had taken away her husband and her son, and it was clear she was desperately lonely. “I need to drive into Norfolk to check in on Grandmother, but I can be back here bright and early tomorrow.” Her shoulders straightened a fraction. “I think I have arrived just in time. I can see you two girls are going to need my help.”
By 4:00 p.m. Mr. Tucker and his men had cleared the front hallway of books and the makeshift set of bookshelves that Samuel had hammered into the wall. Their truck loaded, they drove off to make stops at the local library with the books and then the landfill with the trash.
Megan cringed as she saw the nail holes and dents in the wainscoting that must be nearly a century old. But the addition of the shelves was just one of many questionable improvements that had been foisted onto the house over the decades.
“It baffles me why homeowners cover up such lovely wood with fake paneling or a bad paint job,” Megan said.
“Take a deep breath,” Lucy said. “We’ll make it all better.”
“It’s so unnecessary.”
“Think of it as job security,” Lucy said.
When Rick pulled up in his sheriff’s car shortly after four, he had Natasha in the front seat.
“Judging by the way the girl is chatting and grinning, her hormones have dialed down from raging to calm,” Megan said.
“Like the weather on the bay, both can turn on a dime,” Lucy said, peeking out a salt-streaked window. “I wonder what new ideas she has for her party.”
Megan smiled as she watched the kid bound across the front lawn. Dolly, sleeping on the front porch for the last hour, rose up and rushed toward her.
When Rick rose out of the vehicle, Megan felt a familiar knot coil in her stomach. His muscled, lean frame moved with the grace and confidence of a lion, and she suffered another jolt of sexual desire that was almost comical considering her pear-shaped body.
Rick followed Natasha across the front lawn and up the stairs, and when he looked up, his gaze caught Megan’s and she felt a flush of heat warm her cheeks. That smile tugged at the edge of his lips, and she could only imagine how ridiculous he thought she was.
“Wow, this place looks amazing,” Natasha said. “It doesn’t stink near as bad as it did yesterday.”
“Musty books have their own unique scent,” Megan said. “But I wouldn’t stay stink.”
Natasha shrugged. “Did you find any buried treasure or anything cool?”
“Nothing but books and more books,” Lucy said. “We went through them all, hoping to find something, but so far, nada. Maybe we’ll get lucky later today.”
“I can totally go through books,” Natasha said. “If I find treasure, can I keep it?”
Lucy laughed. “No. But I’ll tell anyone who asks that you were the one that found it.”
“And I can tell the kids at school?” Natasha asked.
“Absolutely,” Megan said.
“Megan, did Mr. Crawford show up today?” Rick asked.
“He did not.”
“Well, then I believe you owe me a couple of pies, Miss Megan.”
She grinned. “I’ll pay up.”
“I’m holding you to it.” Rick picked up an edition of Winston Churchill’s biography, and as he leafed through it, he said almost conversationally, “I hear Helen is in town.”
“Who’s Helen?” Natasha asked.
“She’s the mother of the guy I was engaged to,” Megan said.
“Baby daddy?” Natasha asked.
As a historian Megan was in the business of uncovering secrets, but she had promised this baby it would not be that way between them. What she knew, her daughter would know as soon as it was age appropriate. “Correct. Helen stopped by, and she has agreed to help us work on the house.”
Rick’s gaze lifted to Megan. “You asked for her help?”
“I did.” Megan had heard pregnant women lost their minds a little toward the end of pregnancy. This had to be a symptom of diminished mental capacity. “She’s a whiz at organizing, and this job is bigger than it looks.”
Rick did not speak, but she saw the slight pulse in his jaw. “A project like Spring House will be good for her.”
“Because her son died?” Natasha asked.
“Yes.” Megan hoped Helen wouldn’t drive her insane and her brain would return to full capacity after the baby was born.
“It can be pretty lonely after someone dies,” Natasha said. “I’m glad she’s going to have us now.”
Lucy laid her hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “For all the drama, kid, you’re pretty amazing.”
Natasha shrugged. “Obviously.”
Rick cleared his throat. “You’ve made a lot of progress.”
“We have,” Megan said. “Mr. Tucker just took his first truckload of books away. Most will go to the library for their spring sale, and any others that couldn’t be saved to the dumpster.”
“That might be a lot of stuff,” Rick said.
“Wait until the construction crew arrives tomorrow. There’s no telling what they’ll find when they start ripping down these walls.”
“Like a dead body?” Natasha asked.
“I hope not,” Megan said.
“Might be cool.”
“Come on, kid,” Lucy said. “Help me with some of the stuff in the bedroom.”
“Okay.”
When the two moved toward the door, Megan started to follow until Rick gently took hold of her arm. The contact surprised her and once again churned up warmth that spread through her body.
“What you’re doing for Helen is very kind,” he said quietly. “I know she said some pretty harsh things to you at Scott’s funeral.”
She straightened, wondering who had heard the exchange between Helen and her. She’d certainly told no one. “If you see me running down the road screaming like a madwoman and pulling out my hair, all I ask is that you keep me from jumping in the bay.”
Rick smiled in a way that was far too charming. “She can be intense. But she needs you more than you realize.”
“Hey!” Natasha yelled. “We found something!”
Megan and Rick followed, arriving as Lucy set several books on the floor. Beyond the dusty outline of books on the shelf was a small hatch secured by a latch and a lock.
“Can we open it?” Natasha asked.
Megan inspected the hidey-hole. The lock was made by Dudley and appeared to date back to the 1920s or 1930s. She hesitated, curling her fingers into a fist.
“Everything all right?” Rick asked.
“Rick, you think you could open this?” she asked.
“Sure.” He gripped the lock and tugged, but when it did not budge, he fished a folding knife from his pocket and flicked it open with practiced ease. Very carefully, he wedged the tip under the lock and carefully pried the nails attaching the door to the wall. The brittle wood finally gave way, splitting around the hinges.
The small door popped open, and he wedged it back and forth until the screws securing the hinges worked free. Rick handed the door to Megan and, taking a flashlight from his belt, peered into the opening.
“Is there anything good in there?” Natasha asked.
“Natasha, I think we might have found your buried treasure,” Rick said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Diane
Age 12
Thursday, October 8, 1903
Le Havre, France
By the afternoon, Madame LeBlanc had not changed out of her dressing gown, and remained by the fire. She held the planchette in her hands, rubbing her thumb over the smooth surface as she stared into the flames.
They had eaten all the bread and cheese, and Madame LeBlanc had drunk the last bottle of wine. “Diane, you must post a letter for me to Gilbert. The wine merchant can take care of it for you.”
Diane’s stomach grumbled. “Can I buy bread and cheese?”
“A little, yes. And I require more wine. Grab your coat and hurry. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.”
Diane looked out the slender window toward the gray sky. “Alone?”
“You’re a clever girl. You’re used to a rougher sort of life than I, and you are far more attuned to the streets. You can run these errands without being noticed.”
Diane’s heart pounded in her chest as Madame LeBlanc motioned for her to slip on her coat. “You know what kind of wine I like. You know the shop on the corner we passed when we arrived.”
“No, Madame LeBlanc, I’m not sure which one it is.”
“Out the main door and to the right. It should be easy enough.”
“Can I post my letters to my sister?” She had written several letters to her sister on the crossing but had been unable to post any.
“You may post one,” Madame LeBlanc said as she fastened Diane’s topcoat button. “But it’s critical that you send Gilbert’s letter.”
Wrestling with the tightness in her chest, Diane considered refusing. “What if Pierre finds me?”
“He won’t.” She rose out of her chair and slid on her own coat.
“But he’s out there.”
“If you’re no use to me, then I shall have to put you out on the street, Diane. There is no place for laziness in my household. You wouldn’t want to earn your living like the girls on the street, would you?”
Diane stepped back, shocked by Madame LeBlanc’s sudden crossness. She had seen the wretched creatures whose thin, painted faces projected a mixture of bravado and fear. As much as she did not like living with Madame LeBlanc, the streets were far worse.
Madame LeBlanc recovered her smile quickly. “I’m tired, Diane. Pay no attention to me. Now hurry.”
“I’ll run the errands,” Diane said.
“That’s good, girl.”
“What if Cousin Gilbert doesn’t answer you?”
“Gilbert is a man bound by honor,” she said. “He’ll see to our safety.”
Diane, with her coins pushed deep in her pockets, hurried outside past the girls who lingered on the street corner and past the men who leered. Several men called out to her, as they did each day. Mademoiselle, un moment, s’il vous plaît. But she ducked her face
, refusing to look at anyone. Laughter chased her down the cobblestone streets, blending with the sound of her beating heart and the rush of the city in her ears.
When she rounded the final corner and saw the wine merchant’s shop, she felt such relief. She crossed the street and pushed through the front door. The warmth from a potbelly stove in the corner of the shop made her realize just how cold it had been outside. The heat drew her closer, and she extended her hands toward the hot grate.
The dimly lit shop was a curious place, stocked with bottles of wine from more places than she could ever imagine visiting. There were slabs of sausage hanging from the ceiling and wheels of cheese piled high. Earthy smells of old stone mingled with the scents of cinnamon, blackberries, and licorice. Her skirts brushed against the casks and bottles of wine shelved carefully on their sides as she made her way to the front counter made of roughly hewn wood still showing the ax marks from medieval serfs who had felled the tree.
The curtains behind the counter flickered, and a man appeared. She guessed he was not very old judging by the faintest of wrinkles creasing the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Dark eyes glowed with an almost otherworldly brightness as he watched her approach.
“I need to mail a letter,” she said. “Where do I go?”
“I can post it for you,” he said. “Let me see.”
She handed the two letters to him. He read each address and frowned.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No.” He looked up at her. “New York is in America.”
“My sister lives there.”
“Ah.”
Diane ordered bread and a bottle of wine. The man placed her purchases in her bag and then counted out several pennies in change. As Diane reached for the coins, she noticed the small display of macarons. Realizing she had enough for two, she placed her order.
The man raised a brow but after an indolent shrug wrapped the two largest macarons in white paper. She held the cookies up to her nose, inhaling the scents of rose and lavender. Her mouth watered. She would eat one on the way home and hide the other in her room.
“Bon appétit,” he said.
“Merci.”
With her bottle and bread in her sack, she stepped outside under a darkening sky. Thunder clapped as if the heavens needed to emphasize the point. Raindrops fell, striking her on the face and the lace collar Claire had sent to her before they departed from Baltimore.
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